


Still

by Trekgloria



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 11:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekgloria/pseuds/Trekgloria
Summary: There may be some criticism for the way I have used the character's voice, use of pronouns.  But it was quite deliberate.  This is purely a thought based story. It unfolds purely in the mind/thoughts of one character. I wanted this to convey for the reader as if they were thinking, experiencing the thoughts of the character. So the lack of use of names is deliberate.  The character has no need to use names.  That sounds cryptic and odd, but it was deliberate, and I hope allows the reader to feel it more.  But, I could be completely wrong.  I'm not even sure I've finished this yet.  And it is a completely fantasized/imagined event.As ever, please feel free to comment. If this isn't working for the reader, I need to know.  Writing is such a solitary industry, and yet one goal is to discover if the reader enters into the story and experiences it.  So, I do appreciate, and hope to grow with any comments or feedback.Fair warning, explicit. So for any who do not enjoy erotic descriptions, you can avoid this.





	Still

Still 

Still, she missed him. Still. After all this time. Climbing the stairs tonight, she missed the way he'd encircle his arm around her waist when it was only the two of them, or carrying one of the children up when they were young. Going to bed together had been a ritual, as if the stairs they trod was how they left the mundane world with all it's worries below and retreated into their secret cocoon above. 

She missed him especially in the cold winter. Nights when the water in the basin would skim with ice. Only his body could warm her then. Pulling the heavy quilts over her, he'd draw her close, and even through the fabric of her shift, his body warmed her. She loved that he let her put her cold feet against his legs. Often he would demand she repay him for such kindness, with loving. Replying no, it was far to cold, he'd promise he'd fill her with his heat, and he would. 

She missed him still on the balmy nights, when no cover was needed. And after a joining, they'd lie, naked bodies entwined, letting the gentle breeze fan their skin after their heated joining. She missed him on the stormy nights, when the very air was electric and so were they. Storms raging, as the sky released the stored energy of the day, and so did they. Rushing together like the sea smashing into the cliffs. Determined to have one another, their very joining like the breaking of waves crashing upon the rocks. Powerful, as if they had to become one. No matter her frenzy, he withstood her, allowed her to wash over him, and wanted her to come upon him again.

The feeling, the pain, the hunger for him had not diminished, it was there at every turn, reminding her, still. She walked to the small window overlooking the back garden and stared out. Waiting for him to come up the long field, through the gate, around the barn and be there, come home to her again. Funny, how often she stood looking out this window, watching, waiting, missing him. But this was a new habit, though a disappointing one. For, before she never waited for him. Well, never watching from the window for him. She was too busy fixing a meal, caring for the children, doing all the chores. She didn't need to wait for him then, she knew where he was, how far from home, what he'd want when he returned. Yes too busy to wait then, no time to wait then. Now, all the time in the world to wait for him to return. She longed to be again too busy to stare and wait, but instead to know where he was, and what he'd want when he came home. One last hopeless look out the window, she turned and began to undress. Removing each item and carefully putting them aside for tomorrow. Clothes were never left on the chair or the floor now, too much time to fill, no longer the hurrying to join with him. 

Turning to the ewer and basin, she washed her face, her neck, her arms, then paused and looked at her breasts. Once firm, they had fed her children, but she smiled, it was his attention she longed for still. The way he'd slide his hand over them, then cup each, squeeze gently and then suckle. She remembered the feeling of his lips on her nipples, sometimes like a hungry babe, other times playful, licking, nipping. But no matter, his lips on her nipples roused her. His lips sucking, trying to devour her. He'd place his head between them and count. Once she asked him what was he counting. His reply; "The beats of your heart that say how many times I will join with you tonight and then how many that you'll say you love me." And she had replied; "You can not count that many." Yes, she missed him still. 

Washing her belly, slowing circling her navel, she smiled again the memory of his hands slipping over her skin. His powerful hands, born of hard work, yet never calloused, always smooth when he touched her. He compared her skin to fine silk. Telling her how stoking it made him feel relaxed and comfortable. And she recalled, when he grasped her waist, his thumbs would meet at her navel. He had a habit of gently circling her naval with his thumbs as his face moved down from her breasts, kissing each inch as he went. Light feathery kisses, sometime dragging his tongue along her skin. And once his lips reached her navel, he'd inhale. The prickle from his stubble as he rubbed his face across her belly would make her giggle. Oh to feel that again, just once again. She pressed her hand against her navel and thought how she'd done that so often as a way to play. A tease he'd called her, but she would not prevent him his goal. Sucking on her fingers, wiggling his tongue under her hand to pry it away. 

And then he'd lick her navel, circling it with his tongue. The sensation caused her to giggle then moan from the silky feeling of tongue on her skin. Resting his head against her belly, sometime so long she was sure he'd fallen asleep, but he'd raise his head, look at her, and smile. And how when the babes were growing within her, he'd gently cradle her belly. Touching, stroking her thickening waist, listening to them, he'd pretend to tell them secrets about her, but promised that he would spoil them. She missed that still.

Slipping her hand to her mound, she paused. How often in taking her, had he put his hand here and tenderly pressed, as if the action would release a hidden catch and reveal a secret place for him. And it did, always. He'd once showed her a Chinese Box, that had a hidden latch you had to press before it would open. That was what he knew, her secret, he knew where to press and she would open for him. She could deny him nothing, her whole body would respond, open to him, her legs part and then his fingers would move to her bud. His hands that tore at the earth and demand it release it's hidden treasure, could so tenderly fondle her most intimate and sensitive place, always amazed her.

The times he'd observe her face, as his fingers slowly moved along her opening, stroking, slowly, languidly, determined to excite her. He watched for the evidence of her arousal, listening for her to gasp, to call his name, always smiling in response. The desire and passion always moved her. She'd arch her back towards him, unable to control herself as his hand, one hand, fondling her folds, touching her bud. Her groans would escape and she'd call his name in a begging way. Pleading yes, please, yes, unable to form any words but ones of want, desire, need. Always she had desired him, and still. How often had they played like this she wondered. Not enough, no not enough, not nearly enough. To often the toil of the day left them exhausted, only able to cling to one another, but not join. And the times they were separated by physical distance or emotional division for imagined or real, yes far too many real provocations had separated them. Yes, those were times lost.

As she soaped the flannel and washed herself, she remembered those nights when he used his mouth on her, moving his face to her groin. The first time he brought her to such a release. Unschooled, she had no idea of this loving, but she was lost in the feeling of his lips on her. The way he used his tongue to excite her. Almost fearful at his exploration of her most intimate place, she was too stimulated to challenge, to withdraw, to deny him. How he'd kissed her so tenderly, from her mouth to her breasts, to her navel, to her mound. How she'd gasped when he first pushed her legs apart and lowed his head to use his mouth. How he had stroked her bud and then placed his lips on it and gently sucked. She moaned, nothing had prepared her for this; so raw, so silky, his lips, his tongue, even his teeth holding her bud. So tender, yet the feeling within her, so intense, raging desire. The way he'd held her buttocks with his hands, to ensure nothing came between his mouth and her bud. She could not bear the feeling, surely she would explode. But he kept at her, licking, sucking, moving his tongue along her folds, even penetrating her sheath. That first time she felt the pleasure rise somewhere deep inside, connected from her bud like a thread, and the pulsing began, she called his name over and over. She wanted to weep from the thrill, the pleasure. 

And when she'd had her release and was clinging to him, unsure of what to do, he rolled and pulled her on top and slipped inside her, just holding her, joined, filling her so completely. He'd held her, his cock enveloped by her sheath, just embracing her. Till she needed him again, needed to feel his body, his cock moving inside her, that exquisite friction. Needing him still. And how she'd seen him smile at her. His eyes, that could see into her soul, piercing her as thoroughly as his cock penetrated her. How he then responded to the passion for her, and began to repeat her name over and over. Till his own pleasure over took him, and hers rose again, like a call and response, they found satisfaction together. Joined, filled, at the brink of pain, the bliss released. She missed him, still.

She washed her legs. Recalling the stockings he gave her that Christmas. They had been far to in debt to waste even a shilling on anything, but he'd bought them for her. For months, she had been consumed with dread for the loss of his love, his desire, his need for her. So often in those months, he'd denied her his body and she was afeard he sought another to satisfy his needs. Opening the packet, seeing the stockings. Worrying the expense spent on her when they had so many debts. But, he stared at her, took them and knelt before her. How she had raised her dress, no stockings did she even possess to wear. Her legs longs, lean, and bearing the scars from a childhood playing and living rough. Even her legs had been caught by father's belt a time or two. Yet, he had often run his hand along them, and seemed to enjoy when she wrapped them around his hips to hold him tight within her. 

He had rolled the silky material and slipped them over her foot, up her calf and finally to her thigh, she'd felt him squeeze gently, then take a ribbon and tie it. They way he looked at her, then pushed his hands slowly upwards and touched her, there her mound and she opened to him. So long had it been, he kissed her, and then guided her the bed, pulled her skirt up, released his cock, and took her, both still dressed. Two needing one another, no time to remove their clothes. Swiftly, he entered her, neither needed more play in that moment. Each needed the other to join and quickly feel the act of joining become love. That night had begun with a swift joining and release, but their loving had continued several times during that night, slower, gentler, but each time crafted a reconnection, a rebinding of their love. And she missed that still.

She sat on the stool and moved the basin to soak her feet. The tepid water eased the days aches from being on the go all day. From sun up, she was out and about. Fixing breakfast, tending to the animals, working in the garden, a day spent in labor. How one lived, though no longer did she need to spend her days like this. There were others who could do all these jobs now. But she needed to do them, needed to have that long ago first connection to him, still. Remembering the first time she'd cooked his meal. His compliment, not how good it was, but to ensure she continued to cook for him. The way he smiled when she brought in a dish of buttered mushrooms she'd searched all day to find or serving his favorite new peas and dumplings late in the season. How she carefully tended the tender plants and coaxed a late bearing of peas so he'd have one more bowl before only the dried were available through the winter. She missed cooking for him still. Rising, she pulled on his old shirt. She'd used them for sleep, his shirt surrounded her as his arms used to do. She missed that, still.

Talking the basin to the window, she flung the water out over the little garden housed between the two bays. Here the sun warmed the stones and the tender plants could thrive a little longer before the cold took them. That's how she felt tonight, like a tender plant that could only thrive in the warmth of the sun. He'd been her sun, but he had left her. No, not for that other woman too often between them, but for a far crueler mistress. She looked again out the window, still waiting, but he did not come, he had left her.

She moved to the bed, not their bed. Without him, she had been lost in their bed. She needed his body to define night from day, sleep, rest, and love. Now she had to do everything without his presence. Night continued to arrive, but sleep eluded her. Too often she dreamt of him. He was just out there lost in the dark, waiting for her to come and bring him home. But cruel Hypnos would whisk him away before she reach him. 

This room though gave her comfort, it was what he'd offered her when she first arrived as a child. Small, it had a bed of her own, a chair, a wardrobe, a chest, and a washstand. All, no more than she needed, but not all that she wanted. How often had she laid upon this bed wanting him long before that night when she could stand the desire for him no longer and offered herself to him. How her life with him had had unfolded; an admiration born of kindness first, then desire kindled from the raw sexuality that came from for this handsome, intelligent, and powerful man, then the love roused from the trust and respect.

Memories of that first night drifted through her mind; she'd soaked in the tub, washed her hair. An ablution for her sacrifice and intended wile. Sitting in front of the mirror she bushed her hair till the curls floated and surrounded her face. Then she took a ribbon and tied seven knots, on each she fixed a binding charm, him to her. An old superstition, but she needed every bond to achieve this bold intrigue. Putting on that dress and waited for him to come home, to offer herself to him. And yet when she did, he first refused, but she had come to far to give up. She wanted him, she needed him. She offered again, and that night he accepted the only thing she had to tender, herself. 

Remembering that kiss, that first kiss. Just his lips upon hers. She had no idea how to react, but instinct overcame her inexperience. She responded, opened her mouth and his tongue took her first. The taste of brandy and how his tongue was warm and penetrating as if blindly seeking to devour her. He held her fast for a brief moment then withdrew and denied her. She did not retreat, but pursued him, and this time, he accepted. The next kiss she was ready, she wanted him, she knew to open, to offer, to respond in kind. As his breath, warm as a summer breeze, cascaded down her neck, he placed his mouth to her ear and he whispered, offering her an escape. But she sought no escape from him, from the fulfillment of that desire. Like his longbow, she was strung and the tension between them needed to be relieved. 

The memory of that moment was powerful still. Slipping his hand to her breast, he cupped one, then slid the dress down. As if alive, like a butterfly, it slowly swirled to the floor and alighted. She was naked underneath and he desired her. She could see his cock taut within the fabric, straining, as determined as she was. He moved his head down her body to suckle her breast. An instant of passion and she was poised for him to take her. He stopped, pulled his shirt over his head, she leaned against his chest. Giving her permission to what she desired. The soft hair she'd longed to caress, she twined her fingers through it, and inhaled his essence. Without realizing, she'd slipped her hands to his trousers, and unfastened the buttons, the very ones she'd sewn on. With one hand he held her arm, his other removed the pants and he was naked. 

Unable to look at his cock, she felt him lift and carry her to the bed. Knowing what was coming she still wanted him. Placing her upon his bed, he paused and looked at her, perhaps a last effort to restrain himself, but she pulled him towards her. His lips found hers, his hands sought her breasts and she gasped. He placed himself between her legs and rested his cock at her entrance. Fearing that he would enter her and yet desiring that more than anything, she gripped his arms, and pulled him closer. For a moment in time he was at her sheath, and then he began to enter her. She felt a pain, a pressure, a pressing, a tearing, and yet her body did not pull away, but she wiggled to accommodate his entrance. Nothing must be allowed to stop this now. The pain was there, a stretching; nothing in her past had fully prepared her for this feeling. She was sure he must feel the pain also, and would cease. She pulled him closer and begged please, please. He heard her words and cradled her, pushing his cock, till suddenly all resistance of her body yielded to him, as her heart and soul had so long before this instant.

Filled, a new sensation washed over her, a completeness, all she had imagined, but more. Something primal was in control, she had wanted him, but this was something beyond any imaginings. Such a feeling of complete satisfaction, as if she had lost some part of herself, and only now had found it in joined with him. She looked at his face, saw him smile and then he kissed her. And yet she needed more, and wanted him deeper, harder within her sheath. Slowly he began to move, sliding his cock to the very entrance of her womb, and then pulling back. Afraid to loose the feeling, she met his every thrust. What had been pain was now a pleasure, the friction of his cock held by her sheath drove her. A welling in her sheath, at her womb, and suddenly a release. A throbbing, nothing like this before in all of her wanting him. This was new, it was the most pleasurable sensation of her life. She gasped, she moaned, she cried, she called words, babbling, she was lost in the sensation. And then he kissed her, deep, and she realized something was bathing her sheath, his essence was filling her, what she had sought when realizing she loved him; this life, a balm, a restorative, a magical philter given from him to her. When joined they were complete.

The memory of that night, as strong still as the first time they joined. But tonight, she would not turn to find him there, willing to satisfy her every desire. No more, though she still desired him, still ached for him, He had left her halved, unwhole, bereft of that love. She knew that her heart was connected to her womb, and when he joined with her, he entered her soul. She could feel everything about him when they were joined, as if all of his energy was being passed into her. Still she craved it as much tonight as that first night. It had been in May, and May had always been a month full of change. The night he first joined with her was a May new moon, full of promise. 

But another May, she did remember what the old ones said; a child born between an old moon and the first appearance of a new one, it is said that it will never live to grow old. And that was when Julia had been born. From the fulfillment of that augury she'd always worried about the May moon. And then another May moon, a full moon, one that brought a madness and nearly destroyed them both. 

And then that May when he left her, she saw the new Moon with the old Moon in her arm and remembered the saying: 'I fear, I fear, my dear master that we shall come to harm.' And that May moon had come and almost completely destroyed her again, taken something else from her. Now the years gone, and still the pain as fresh as that year, still hurting, still.

As they slipped into their dotage, he so enjoyed teasing her as she aged, something that rankled her. Yet, they continued to join, though their frequency lessened and their intensity had relaxed over the years. In some ways the intimate knowledge of each added to their pleasure. So secure in the trust of the other, they played, they took their time, they used the knowledge to explore, to seek new adventures. Still for her, all the play, all the adventure was but a new path to reach the same goal, united as one, satisfied, loved.

She turned to her side to watch tonight's moon. What portent did it hold for her? She had gone up early to bed tonight. She'd spent the day in garden, clearing out old growth, putting in new plants for the season. She was aching, she'd overdone, something about her heart seemed heavy. But the garden had always been a favorite place, so satisfying to plant and watch the resulting growth, daily you could see the change, and at the end the reward for your hard work. As she watched the a waning moon rise. She wondered, not afraid, ready, would this be her May? To once again be joined with Ross.


End file.
